Wanderers
by PardalPiston
Summary: Joined together out of need and chance; bonded together through fire and steel; remained together out of trust and might. New-arrivals at Skyrim. No Dragonborn. T-Rated for safety.


22nd of Last seed. Year 201 of the Fourth Era.

It was a cold, windy night, the weather more typical of Skyrim than of Cyrodiil. The countryside was silent and motionless, save the occasional wildlife, as far as the eye could see. This was not to be unexpected, for the hills to the north of the hard and cold city of Bruma were even harder and colder, a very unwelcoming place for strangers and locals alike. Even more so now, with the only nearby road closed and word of civil war in Skyrim spreading for quite a while.

The only human (or elven, for the matter) presence in miles around was that of five fellow travelers, sheltered in a makeshift camp on the leeward side of a hill. Like all others heading north, these five travelers had followed the long line of caravans and roamers down the road from Bruma to one of the Gates, only to find it closed; just like all the others, no explanation was given to them, and they were told to return to the nearest inn and not to wander in the field by the angry Imperial gate patrol (and the even angrier Thalmor representative, standing nearby and eyeing at every person in the road for no apparent reason). Unlike all others, however, they decided to take the hard way and climb the mountains directly, instead of returning to the Jerall View for another round of brandy. Being the only ones to have chosen the hard way, their encampment was the only source of light in the mountains, and the only sound to be hard was that of them arguing.

- This was a lousy idea. We should have turned back at the gate as we were told – said the Imperial, younger-looking member of the group.

- Why? Did you forget your spine at Cyrodiil? Maybe you should have told us earlier – responded, wryly, the Breton in the gold-colored robe. – Of all of us here, Adamus, you should be the one less worried about the Legion. You're doing this _for _them.

- That is precisely why I should be following their orders. What if they ask how did I get past the border at Solitude?

- Say you arrived last week. The border was open until five days ago, you know.

- But what if they check with the local –

- Julianos's sake! Do you actually think they'll ever bother with that? A civil war going about and they'll spend their resources with _background checks_? Do you ever think about what you say?

The Imperial stirred uncomfortably, but did not respond.

- You know, Adamus, it's a good choice for you, becoming a legionnaire. Stendarr help you if you wanted any job involving thinking…

- Enough, Zarin – a third one replied, in a quiet tone. – One should not take a Divine's name for mockeries. And our friend Adamus deserves none of this.

- _Your_ friend. But; be it as you desire, Priest of Arkay. I should sleep anyways. – And the one named Zarin withdrew to a tent.

A few minutes of silence followed. Both Adamus and Angrod – for that was the name of the Altmer priest – stood quietly, staring at the surrounding emptiness as another one of the five, a scarred Redguard veteran, stood in silent vigil for the night.

- Quite an effort you're putting into joining the Legion, Adamus. Some would call it admirable.

- I don't need you to defend me, elf – said Adamus abruptly, and stepped briskly into his tent. Angrod sighed.

- Well then. Good night, Waylas – said the elf to the Redguard, and in turn went inside himself.

Waylas the Redguard said nothing.

* * *

><p>23rd of Last seed. Year 201 of the Fourth Era.<p>

In the early hours of the morning, the five fellow travelers broke camp and continued their way north, up and down the mountains.

- We must be past Fort Neugrad already – said the Nord leading them, the only woman in the group. – Helgen should be less than two hours ahead.

- First good news since Bruma – said a frowning Zarin. He detested walking. – Maybe we should just go down the road from now on; the Imperial patrols are way behind.

- Did they even tell anyone why was the border closed? – asked Adamus.

- Not to me they didn't. Nor to anyone back at the gate. – her name was Sigrida, and she was the only one among them to know the ways around Skyrim. – Stay together; these wilds are dangerous, and I feel something here's not right. – And they remained silently on their way.

And indeed the path seemed to be turning grimmer as they went. As they approached the city, the very sounds of nature around them seemed to decrease, as if every animal knew better than to approach the city, and a thin layer of soot covered rocks and trees. Just as they were about to arrive at Helgen, their first encounter was with an agonizing man by the roadside. Four of them marched right past him, but the priest of Arkay stopped the group, and insisted in helping the moribund.

- Fine. Stay here then – retorted Sigrida. – I'll drop by the nearest inn and raise him a mug. – and continued her march toward the city.

The dying man seemed to have been there for days, despite the deep, ugly burns that covered the right side of his body. The wounds were festering badly and flies were already surrounding the spot. The empty bottles at his side suggested the man had been clinging to life through potions and strong ales; but there was nothing left for him to drink. Angrod knelt beside him.

- What is your name, my son? – asked Angrod.

- Torolf. My name is Torolf.

- Is there anything you wish me to do to ease your pain?

- The boy. Haming. Is he alright?

- What boy? I'm sorry, we haven't –

- The whole city. The whole city… In the middle of the execution…

- What are you saying, son? Are you –

- I wouldn't… believe… if… my own eyes… Dragon. Dragon… – Torolf seemed oblivious to Angrod's words. – Dragged here… to get out…

- Delusional. – Zarin cut through the nonsensical dialog. – He is in fever. Just give him the rites, priest. This man will be dead at any moment now.

And sure enough, after whispering one more word ("Dragon!"), the man's breath faltered; and he was gone. Angrod sighed.

- I wish I could have done more for you, son. – A shared moment of silence. – "Come to this man in his time of suffering, Arkay, for without you, there is neither breath nor beginning, nor can any man live, love, or learn –

- What kinds of burns are these? - cut Zarin again, in mid-prayer. – I've never seen magical fire burn this angrily.

- …without the spark of your spirit." – continued Angrod, unabashed. – "As I command your soul to Aetherius, blessing of the Nine Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved -

- BY YSMIR! – Sigrida's distant cry was loud enough to startle any life in a mile round. - What kind of sorcery is this? – alarmed, Angrod and Zarin sprung to their feet, and the four ran toward their guide.

The reason of her shock not long remained a secret. Just around a corner of stone lied what was left of Helgen. A smoldering ruin. And nothing else.

The five stood there, completely dumbfounded, in the middle of the road for a few minutes. Zarin was the first to break the silence.

- This city… It was an… uhn… Imperial garrison, right, Adamus?

- Y-Yes… I think… W-Why do you ask?

- Well. If this was an act of the war… - he shrugged, a helpless look on his face – _Good luck with those rebels, son._

* * *

><p><em><strong><strong>_**Author's notes**

This is my very first attempt at publishing fanfic material, so any and all reviews are more than welcome - not only those addressing the characters, the plot, story, and other major elements, but as well as those about minor topics, such as language, prose style, formatting. Any interest of any kind is welcome, and any questions will be answered. It may take a while for me to go to the second chapter, however. I like to polish my text just about as much as I can.

Thank you for your consideration.


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